


you were a kindness when i was a stranger

by dadvans



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadvans/pseuds/dadvans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer accidentally sends Rick a tit pic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were a kindness when i was a stranger

**Author's Note:**

> you're welcome.

The first time is an innocent mistake.  Okay, it’s a mistake, but there really isn’t anything innocent about tit pics.  Summer’s been texting Greyson Ricardo from her chemistry class for two weeks, and things have been getting heated; he already asked if she was going to Sally Gordon’s party on Saturday, because he is, and he’d like to see her there.  He even asked for her snapchat, and when she said she didn’t have one he sent back a frowny face, followed by:

> guess u cant see my story. leg day at the gym

And she texted back jokingly like how she might not want to see it, withholding how she thinks that Greyson Ricardo is somehow one of the most ripped guys at their high school without even being on a sports team.  Instead she added something like the most she worked out was multiple reps lifting potato chips from the bag to her mouth, which she thought sounded harmless, but more importantly, cute.  She tried not to lose her mind when he responded:

> what!!! ur super cute i bet u have a great body

She jokingly replied: lol ok, followed by three flexing muscle arms. 

To which he said: ill show u mine if u show me urs, followed by a picture of the sweatiest abs she had ever seen in her life.  

This is how Summer ends up in the bathroom with her shirt off, sucking in her stomach as much as she can in front of the mirror for approximately ten minutes.  Maybe he didn’t even want to see nudes, she thinks! What if he just wants to see _her_ abs, which he mistakenly thinks she even has? She stares at herself in the mirror in a variety of poses--arm overhead, thin out the pocket of baby fat on her stomach she hoped years of running from alien monsters would get rid of?  Over the shoulder, class it up with some side boob, just enough nipple to say _hello_?  Finger in mouth: too slutty?  Too obvious?  She’s never done this before.  

She winds up taking one that covers her face with the flash of the phone camera at eye level, and sends it to him, too afraid to look at the phone when she does.  She spends the next two minutes freaking out about it, putting the phone on the bathroom counter and sitting on the toilet, anxiously watching it out of reach.  There’s no response, then no response, then no response, and she briefly wonders if he’s sending it to the entire senior class, and if she was an idiot to fall for it.  God, probably, her panicked mind thinks obsessively, and she resists the urge to reach for her phone and send a paragraph-long threat when her phone buzzes on the counter.  She jumps up to grab it and pull it back, protectively cradling it against her knees as she brings her feet up to greet her ass on the toilet seat.  Her phone screen reads: 

> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> I’m gonna say it’s safe to assume that text wasn’t meant for me

Holy shit.  She swipes open her screen.  Holy shit!  Staring back at her is a text conversation with Rick, who she definitely sent the tit pic to instead of Greyson Ricardo, and holy shit holy shit holy shit _holy shit_.

Please ignore that, she writes back almost in tears at the thought of Rick, Grandpa Rick being assaulted with a picture her exposed and inviting.  After a few seconds of hyperventilating she thinks to add, and please don’t tell mom and dad.

He texts back the hand emoji for 'okay'.  

She sighs and presses the phone to her forehead, completely embarrassed and wishing she could have the last five minutes back or at least fade from existence altogether.  She doesn’t even know if she can leave the bathroom and live through the chance that they could run into each other in the hallway.  What if he tries to look her in the _eyes_ after this?  She takes a few deep breaths before grabbing her shirt off the floor and tugging it on, ear pressed against the door for a solid minute until she’s sure it’s safe to sneak back to her room.  

It’s only until a few hours later when she gets another text (did i scare u off????) from Greyson that she realizes she never even resent the picture to the right person, and now she’s afraid to try again.  

Ha ha, she types out with shaky fingers, maybe you just have to try harder.  She thinks it sounds smooth, and breathes a little sigh of relief when he sends back a winky face.  

 

X

 

The second time is also a not-so-innocent mistake.  Greyson’s been sending her tons of photos of himself in front of the mirror at the gym, skin glistening in nothing but a pair of thigh-high shorts she thought they stopped making forty years ago.  He’s got a nice, dark patch of hair that runs up past his belly button that she wants to chase with her mouth, and tiny dark brown nipples she wants to pinch with her teeth.  She imagines him doing the same to her, cupping her breasts in his large, capable hands that she watches across the table in chemistry handle delicate glass beakers and test tubes.

She’s getting turned on enough after he sends her a picture post-shower, with the question am i trying hard enough yet?,that she excuses herself from watching The Bachelorette with the family to go upstairs and maybe touch herself and definitely take a few pictures.  

She locks the door and jumps in bed, turns on the lamp to her left for what she presumes will be sensual mood lighting.  It’s another fifteen minutes to a half hour with her shirt pulled up into her mouth while she rolls around on her bed trying to take pictures from different angles, phone overhead in one hand while she has the other slipped down under her leggings.  She likes to think that she has a big enough back catalogue of almost-nudes from Greyson that he has something to risk if he sent out any of her own, so she feels a little braver this time; it’s just a matter of taking something cute that’ll maybe get her the chance to see that disgustingly cut body of his in person.  Finally, she gets a decent enough angle where her stomach looks flat but her boobs look perky, and sends the shot to the frequent contact GR in the corner of the phone.  And then she waits.  

A minute goes by.  Two minutes.  She opens Facebook on her phone and tries to see if the photo has popped up on her feed just in case.  Three minutes.  Five minutes.

There’s a knock at her door.  Her blood runs cold.  She hastily pulls down her top and looks accusingly at her phone, because there’s no way she could have--

“ _Summer._ ”  It’s Grandpa Rick.  She definitely did.  Fuck.  She briefly considers not answering and crawling under her bed to die, but he knocks again.  “ _Jesus Christ, Summer, I know you’re awake, I can hear you mouthbreathing, wh-wh-what is this door made of, anyway, cardboard?_ ”

She can’t even look at him as she opens the door, head tucked down and eyes on her own chipped toenail polish.  She opens her mouth to stutter out an apology, but he doesn’t give her the chance, pushing past her into her room and making himself comfortable on her bed.

“Summer,” he says again, “we need to talk.  I, I, I can’t, as someone who is responsible for your livelihood and wellbeing, let you send out things like this.”

He holds up the phone and she chances a glance only to be met with the picture she took just moments ago, bra pulled off and pink tank up between her teeth to expose her breasts with a confidence she doesn’t recognize.  She immediately puts her head back down, the burn of a blush crawling up her entire back to her ears.  Distantly, she realizes she’s shaking.  “I, it was irresponsible of me--”

“ _Irresponsible?”_ Rick scoffs.  “When have I ever cared about you being _responsible_ or _irresponsible_ , Summer?  Look at this photo!  Have you ever even heard of the rule of thirds?  You think some guy is gonna get off to a picture this aesthetically unpleasant, Summer?  Which isn’t to say that you aren’t gorgeous, no, but your nipple’s a blurry streak, there’s no definition, and the lighting is terrible.  It makes you look like your brother, honestly.”

She blinks a few times, letting his words sink in.  Finally she says, “what?”

“Look at me, Su-UEGH-mmer, look,” he says, and she does, chewing the inside of her lip nervously.  “I know you sending this to me was a mistake, but God, I’m not gonna let you send it to anyone else without giving you a few pointers.  Number one: laying on your back flattens you out.  Number two: a-a-angles are your best friend, as is better lighting.”

What terrifies her more than Rick actually giving sound advice is that he’s posing on her bed, the long, lean angles of him attractive as he stretches himself.  She’s always tried to blind herself to the sexuality of him, but now it’s unavoidable as he holds a photo of her flashing her tits overhead on her bed and poses like he’s taking one of himself.  It should be hilarious, or embarrassing, or both.  It’s something else entirely.  

“You sure know a lot about taking nude pictures of yourself,” she says.  She doesn’t mean for it to come out accusingly as it does.  

He snorts, rolls his eyes, sits himself back up.  “What, you think this is the first nude picture someone’s sent me in my life?  That someone sent me _today_ , Summer?  You think I’m some kind of amateur?”

The flush returns to her face, and she doesn’t know what to say.  He looks at the picture again, eyebrow raised, questioning and critical at it.

“One more tip,” he says, standing up.  He puts his hand on her shoulder, thumb extended down and pressed soft against her collarbone.  “Don’t pull your shirt up to right here.  It cuts you off, makes you look shorter, wider, you lose some form.  In theory it’s good to tease, but uh, I’ve always thought no shirt was a better look.  Anyway.”

He removes his hand and moves past her to leave.  She doesn’t know what to say.  Should she say anything.  “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.  Oh, and hey,” he says, not bothering to turn around as he heads back down the hallway, “maybe look at who you’re texting a little closer before you actually send the picture.”

She watches him head back downstairs, and it feels like a decade before she’s closing her bedroom door again, asking herself what just happened.  She tries to remove herself from it as she slowly slides her shirt back off, turns her camera phone back on.  She turns the overhead light on to contrast the lamp, and tries not to wonder if Rick is downstairs thinking about her.

When she sends another photo, she makes absolutely sure it’s going to the right person.

 

X

 

Sally Gordon’s party is fucking crazy, and Summer would feel cool as hell for just being there if she weren’t so nervous.  She’s had three cups of jungle juice and a beer and is feeling undeniably lit before Greyson shows up, and she has to duck away to an out of use bathroom the second she sees him walk in to make sure she doesn’t look like a mess.  But when she closes the door behind her and takes a good look in the mirror, she can’t really tell.  She tucks a few stray hairs behind her ears, but she’s not sure if she’s too flushed from drinking, if her mouth is too red from jungle juice, and she briefly considers climbing out the window and running away into the night so she doesn’t embarrass herself in front of actual high school supermodel Greyson Ricardo.

But then she gets an idea.  She pulls out her phone and takes a quick picture in the mirror, nothing special, and sends it to Rick.  How do I look? she writes.

Her phone buzzes a half minute later.

> **Grandpa Rick**
> 
> Those aren’t boobs

Maybe if she was sober she wouldn’t think it was funny, but she chokes out a half-laugh instead, rolling her eyes.  Yea I know, just in general???

Rick’s reply is immediate: You look beautiful.

And that is--something, she isn’t sure what.  It kind of floors her, if she’s being honest with herself, because she kind of expected him to be brutally honest or be mean and disguise it as a joke, but instead she gets _you look beautiful_ , and it feels like something she didn’t know she was waiting to hear for years.  It makes her knees weak.  And it makes her feel beautiful.  She looks in the mirror and suddenly she feels just that,  _beautiful_.

Numbly, she writes back thanks.

When she heads back to the party, Greyson finds her immediately.  “Girl,” he says, “I’ve been looking for you all night!”

They sneak into Sally Gordon’s basement, which is clearly being redecorated as a wet bar and game room.  Greyson uses his amazingly toned arms to lift her up on a covered billiard table and kiss her senseless, tongue slipping into her mouth with practiced reservation, as if he’s faking shy.  She’s bolder, she thinks, getting her hand down his pants and feeling for where he’s already half hard.  It’s her first time touching a dick, and it’s weird, skin less taut, velvety, a lot more delicate and much smaller than she expected too.  He whines into her mouth so she eases her grip and jerks him off right there.

She blames her drunken mind for allowing her to wonder what Rick would say if he were here, if-- if it was him, what would he say.  What pointers would he give her, would he praise her?  The idea of him telling her she’s doing a good job, calling her a good girl is louder than the actual sputters and moans coming out of Greyson Ricardo’s mouth, and she can feel how wet she is when she rocks back and forth on the edge of the table.  

It takes her ten minutes to get him off, and she feels bad about it until he fingers her for twenty and she doesn’t get off at all.

 

X

 

Greyson Ricardo won’t stop texting her, and she thinks they might be dating, but she isn’t sure.  It feels like she should want the reality she’s living more than she actually does, and she tries not to feel shame over that.  

wat r u wearing, he writes her the Sunday after Sally Gordon’s party.  He sends her a pic of him in his jockstrap at the gym, where he seems to live, ass flexed in the mirror.  She rolls her eyes.  

She’s currently wearing yoga pants and a tank top, but she’s pretty sure that isn’t the kind of sexy spank bank material he’s asking for, so she goes over to her dresser to look for something cute to put on.  What she realizes is this: she has let her mom buy her underwear for the past seventeen years of her life, or at least supervise the underwear she has purchased herself, and she is officially the Worst Teenage Girl in the World, because the sexiest pair of undies she owns is a cotton g-string with a cartoon monkey on the front.  

She peels off her yoga pants and wiggles into them, and looks down at herself, hands on her hips.  She feels ridiculous.  After a brief moment of hesitation, she takes out her phone.  I need your help, she writes.  Seconds later she gets a reply:

> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> Uh oh.

 

Ha ha, funny, she replies.  Tell me what you think.

She takes a picture of the underwear she’s wearing with her eyes closed, already too self-conscious and afraid of the response.  She isn’t surprised when she gets:

> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> Am I on To Catch a Predator
> 
> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> Or are you trying to catch a predator??
> 
> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> This is some creepy self-aware twelve yr old predator bait

She puts her head in her hand, miserable, because yeah, she knows.   After a second she texts back: it’s all i have.  

Almost instantly she sees:

> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> Hang on.

She waits.  She waits and waits and waits.  After about twenty minutes of waiting she gets impatient and shimmies out of the panties and buries them deep into the recesses of her underwear drawer where hopefully she will never see them ever again.  Instead of taking a sexy clothed shot she just crawls into bed on her stomach and takes an over-the-shoulder ass shot, which she sends to Greyson with the caption: nothing.

She gets a winky face back.  Surprise.  Eventually she goes downstairs and makes herself a sandwich for lunch and puts something mindless on VH1 to watch in the living room, ignoring whatever else he sends her.  She watches TV for a few hours until she hears a door slam upstairs, which-- she didn’t think anyone else was home, Mom at work and Dad out teaching Morty to drive, and Grandpa Rick doing who knows what.  

She leaves the TV on when she creeps upstairs as if to not alert any intruders that might be creeping around.  When she gets to the top she sees her bedroom door is closed, which is weird, because she left it open.  She heel-toe creeps it down the hall, and tries to open the door as quietly as possible, shoulder first.  

There’s no one inside.

But there is a bag on her bed.  It’s a big shopping bag, pink-striped and shiny, magenta tissue paper coming out the top.  She recognizes it, because she sees them at the mall all the time, and girls at school carry small ones around like it’s something to brag about.  She looks around, but of course there’s no one else there.  She closes the door behind her.

When she looks in the bag, she ends up finding a dozen pairs of lacy panties--a few thongs, a pair of boy shorts, another g-string, all different colors.  There are bras to match, white satin with black lace, pink-on-pink, black-on-black.  Everything is the right size, and the thought that--that Rick would know, or would dig through her underwear drawer to find out instantly makes her feel hot and swollen and soaked.  She shivers, dropping the bra she’s holding.

Downstairs, faintly, she can hear the TV.  She can’t hear anything else, no one moving around in the house, no one across the hall.  Still, she doesn’t know if she’s alone.  She looks over her shoulder, like he’d be standing right there, but there’s no one.  He didn’t even leave a note.  

After ten minutes of standing there and thinking about it, she peels off her pants again and slides on a black, lacy thong.  It’s itchy and uncomfortable and weird, but when she looks over her shoulder, her ass looks incredible.  Then she rolls off her tank and unfastens the skin-toned bra her mom bought her at JcPenney last year, trading it for the mystery black one that matches the thong she’s wearing.  She grabs her phone off the bed and holds it overhead, taking a selfie of her standing like that, confident and sexy and feeling incredibly mature in the new set.  When she looks at it she doesn’t even think she has to take another one; she feels incredible.   _Beautiful_.  

After a moment’s hesitation, she pulls up Rick’s number and sends it to him.  Better? She writes.  

She doesn’t send anything to Greyson.

 

X

 

It sort of becomes a thing after that.  She just texts Rick all the time: what do you think? how’s the angle? And he responds with what could be interpreted as sound advice that is mostly re-affirming.  Sometimes he’s drunk though, and it gets a little too honest, and whatever game they’re playing stops becoming a game and turns into something that makes Summer feel ashamed all over again, because she knows she should know better, and she knows he should know better.  Sometimes she sends him a picture of herself in bed with a bra strap coming down over her shoulder, or her ass in the air stretching out the boyshorts he bought her, and he sends back something like: running from aliens summer not a good time for a boner.

But she keeps doing it.

He makes her feel beautiful.  

Sally Gordon has another party, and she spends the entire time getting wasted and ignoring Greyson Ricardo.  She doesn’t even remember the second half of the night, and is surprised when she wakes up in her own bed the next morning.  When she looks at her phone, she wants to throw up.  

She sent at least ten pictures to Grandpa Rick from the party, each more revealing than the last.  The first few have one-word responses to them: cute. nice. wow. The next three are followed by a question: how drunk are you? There’s nothing after that.

She doesn’t know if she can get out of bed.  

Eventually he doesn’t give her a choice.  After an hour of hiding under her covers, she gets a new text from him.

> **Grandpa Rick:**
> 
> We’re talking about last night. I’m in the garage.

The walk of shame downstairs feels like it takes another hour.  Maybe it does.  She stands in front of the garage door for what feels like a lifetime.  She knocks before entering, and hears him grunt out a displeased, _yeah?_

She pushes the door open uneasily.  He’s sitting at his workbench, shoulders hunched over.  “You uh, you wanted to talk, Grandpa Rick?”

“Now it’s ‘Grandpa Rick,’ huh?” He says, not turning around to look at her.  She doesn’t know what he means, but she’s sure she’s about to find out.  “I wouldn’t say I _want_ to do anything, Summer, but you’re not really giving me a choice.”

“Yeah, about that--” she tries, but he cuts her off.

“What do you remember about last night?”

“Uh, well,” she says, and thinks about it, but can’t come up with much past her first few drinks.  “Honestly, nothing.”

“Alright,” he says.  “So you don’t remember that I had to come pick you up from the party?”

She doesn’t.  “No.”

“Do you remember me helping you into bed?”

“No,” she says, getting more and more uncomfortable with each passing second.  

“Do you remember trying to kiss me?” He asks.  She doesn’t.  She’s so ashamed, feels like her skin is crawling with humiliation.  

“N-no,” she chokes out, backing into the garage door she let close behind her.  He pushes the chair out from underneath him and stands up.  It lets out a long screech as it slides against the concrete floor that seems to rattle her bones.

“And so I bet you don’t remember what you said when I pushed you away.  That _I_ ,” he says, “and I’m paraphrasing here, Summer, you said that _I_ do not get to decide when my morality suits me when fucking my granddaughter.”

She feels gutted.  Absolutely gutted.  

“Which,” he continues, “is k-k-kind of a fair point.  But still, I’m not gonna, I like to think I’m better than taking advantage of a drunk girl.  A drunk anyone.  And I’m sorry, but Drunk Summer doesn’t get to decide when my morality suits her either.”

He walks toward her.  His eyes are a still, cold blue, like the glassy kind of waveless a body of water can be before a storm.  She wants to shrink down before him, but every last inch of will in her body is fighting to stand defiant.  He gets right up close to her.  She can feel his breath on her face.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.  It’s disarming.

“What?” She says.

“How are you feeling?” He repeats.  “Drunk?  Hungover?  Capable of rational thought?”

“Uh,” she says.  She feels a little hungover, kind of spacy, but mostly just tired and embarrassed.  Instead she tells him, “fine.  I feel fine.”

“Okay,” he says.  “Because I’m letting you decide.”

“Decide what?” She asks.

“Decide what the fuck we’re doing,” he says.  And his eyes dart down her body, take all of her in, and like a crack in his armor, she sees it: how nervous she makes him, how vulnerable.  It makes her feel powerful.  “Summer--”

So she kisses him.  She doesn’t remember trying to last night, but she doesn’t put it past herself.  All she knows is that she’s spent the past few weeks feeling wanted by someone, feeling beautiful and validated, and it hasn’t been because of Greyson.  

“Shit,” Rick mutters into her mouth, before his hands slide down to cup her by the ass, and he pulls himself in.  He kisses her back hungrily, not like Greyson did, not shy and sweet, but voracious.  It’s not sloppy either, it’s him coaxing her mouth open again and again, thin lips pressing against hers and opening before closing, biting at her lower lip, sucking it in greedily.  He makes her whine, desperate, and claw at his thin chest.

He spends no time getting his body pressed flush against hers and lifting her by her cheeks.  Instinctively her legs go around his waist and her arms go over his shoulders, and she’s surprised, as always, by how strong he still is, holding her up like she weighs nothing at all.  Her leggings are so thin she can easily feel how hard he is in his own jeans, rutting up against her more like a teenage boy and less like a man of his age.  She rolls her hips forward as much as she can in her position, because it’s what her body is telling her to do, get as much friction as she possibly can against where she’s swollen and slick with need.  It’s all she can do to hold on and meet his mouth as it pushes and licks into her own, growling possessively.  

“Got you, baby,” he tells her between kisses, “I got you.  Wanna, can you--reach down and get my pants, can you?”

She slides her hands down his chest, reaching at an awkward angle in between them to undo his fly and part of his zipper until he can shake his way out of his pants.  He keeps her held against the door as he kicks them off at the ankle behind them, all the while fingering at the elastic waistband on her leggings.  She gets the hint and starts to roll those down too, exposing the nothing she’s wearing underneath as she gets them down to her thighs.  When he rubs his dick against her again it’s only the thin cotton of his briefs that separates him from the wet folds of her, and she moans, wanting more.  She can already tell that he’s much bigger than Greyson, who she only held in her hand once, and it makes her legs shake weakly in his grip.   

“You ever?” He asks, “with that boyfriend of yours?”

Her hands go back to his face and she tries to shake her head, no, kissing him at the same time.    

“Maybe we should uh,” he says, “we shouldn’t.”

“No,” she says, hands tangling themselves in his coarse hair, “please.”

“You sure?” He says.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah.”

“Okay, hold on,” he tells her, and presses her with his fully weight against the door, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders tighter than before as he takes his hands off her ass to slide his dick out of his underwear.  She can only feel the head of it, thick and huge, glide up and down, dragging from her clit to her entrance and back and forth and back and forth teasingly as he kisses up into her.  “You ready?”

“Uh huh,” she says, and he pushes in, and the air gets knocked out of her.  

It’s so big.  It’s so big and it hurts, and she thought she was ready, but he’s honestly _huge_ , he feels a thousand miles wide inside of her.  

“It’s just the tip, baby, gonna go slow,” he says, easing the head of himself in and out of her in shallow thrusts, and it feels like she’s being torn apart every time.  She tries to choke back a cry, but it comes out anyway, echoes into his mouth, and he kisses her back fiercely, before moving his lips to her cheek, her ear, her neck.  “Shh, we’re just goin’, we’re going slow, alright?  Okay?”

She nods, letting her face fall so her forehead rests against his shoulder, and he expertly moves himself in and out of her, a little deeper every time.  Eventually he settles into a rhythm that feels good, and she eases into it.  Her insides feel heavy with him, full, and she’s starting to crave more, rocking her body back against his to greet his thrusts.  

“That’s it,” he tells her, “you got this baby, God, you got this so good, you’re so good, doing such a good job.”

It’s the praise she’s been craving pouring out of his mouth like a prayer, washing over her, making her tremble.  Her nails dig into his back and she grips him tight as they start fucking into each other, and his thrusts become more powerful, punching moans out of her every time.  When she was with Greyson, jerking him off, she always wondered if they fucked-- would she know what to do?  Would she know what noises to make, how to react to every touch and sensation the right way?  But Rick doesn’t give her a choice, fucks every awful noise out of her with his thick dick roaring into her until she’s completely overwhelmed.  

“Can’t believe you, you dirty little girl, sending those pictures to your grandpa like that.  At first, thought, thought it was a mistake, but--God, you’re just a slut, aren’t you, just a slut for your old man.”

“Oh God,” she says, because this is it, she thinks, as she spasms around him, like she’s falling apart completely.  She can hear the way she’s so wet, too wet, pussy making thick noises as she comes and comes.

“You coming, baby?” He asks, distantly in her ear, and she nods, sobbing.  She feels him getting thicker inside her, impossibly thick, until he’s pulsing something warm and unfamiliar into her, his own arms trembling as he slams her into the door again and again. “Fuck!  Fuck.”

It feels like he’s coming inside her for a million years, and it’s almost enough to get her going again, the hot, heavy load of him dripping out of her and down her thighs.  When he finally pulls out and eases her down, her legs are shaking so much she’s not sure she can stand.  He keeps his hands on her hips while she tries to tug her leggings back up and watches her warily for a second.

“Do you need me to carry you back to bed?” He asks, and it almost sounds like he’s joking, but she thinks he might, so she nods.  He shrugs, and with the same unexpected strength as before, ducks down and lifts her over his shoulder.

He gets her back upstairs and lays her back down on her bed with the same tenderness that he had when entering her.  He leaves for a second, and she wonders if it’s for good, until he comes back with a warm, wet wash cloth.  He pulls her leggings back down and wipes at the insides of her thighs, her sore, fucked open pussy, and sighs.  

“Are we gonna have to talk about this more?” She asks as he tenderly touches the cooling cloth to where she’s puffy and throbbing, feeling torn apart.  

“God, I hope not.  But probably.”  He pauses.  After a minute he says, “I’ll take care of you, though. When you need me to.”  

She hums at that.  It’s a nice thought, even though something curls up rotten inside her like it’s wrong.  She tries to ignore it, focus on the wet, gentle strokes, the way he looks down at her like a prize that he’s won.  And she feels beautiful.  

**Author's Note:**

> come kinkshame me on tumblr @[dadvans](http://dadvans.tumblr.com/)


End file.
